Revenant
by ShadowsHideYou
Summary: "Kira?" Dax gasped, eyes widening in shock and growing horror. The drone glanced up, tilting her head to the side. She straightened, taking a step towards Dax. To her credit, the Trill managed not to flinch as the Borg stopped directly in front of her, uncomfortably close as she grasped the sides of the woman's face and peered curiously into her eyes. "No," she said. "We are Borg.
1. First Contact

Alpha Quadrant

Deep Space 9 in orbit around Bajor

Stardate 47703

Three months ago . . . .

A soft beep sounded from one of the consoles in Ops. An Ensign glanced up, snapping to attention as he reported.

"Message for you, Commander. It's Major Kira."

"Thank you, Ensign. Put it through to my office," Commander Sisko replied, not bothering to look at the nervous and eager to please new graduate of Star Fleet Academy. The younger man complied, looking a little embarrassed.

After a moment, Sisko paused in his work, stepping back from the monitor he had been viewing.

"It's been over a week since she last contacted you," Dax shot him a smirk. "She must be going crazy."

"I'm sure the Major can handle a simple first contact mission," he replied dryly.

Dax's smirk grew more pronounced as she leaned over her console, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "I dunno, Benjamin. From her reports, the Elassi don't seem very eh . . . conventional.

"I believe her exact words were "a race of hedonistic, godless narcissists with a penchant for wasting time and resources," he intoned in a bland voice. Nevertheless, the faintest hint of amusement leaked into his expression, a sign that Dax failed to miss.

She coughed in an attempt to hide her laughter, earning a few curious glances from the Ensigns and junior officers.

Sisko rolled his eyes. "Nevertheless, this is a first contact mission, as I've said, and the Elassi deserve to be treated with the same amount of respect afforded to any other species."

"As much as Kira can stand to show them, you mean," Dax muttered, grinning to herself as the Commander turned and climbed the steps to his office.

. . . .

Once inside, he took a seat at his desk, switching on the communications panel.

"Major," he greeted his first officer calmly, as he leaned back and steepled his fingers.

"Commander Sisko! May I say what a joy it is to speak with you," Kira began in an overly cheerful voice, a hint of desperation in her eyes. "You know, of all the people in Star Fleet, you have always been my favorite."

"You can't come back early, Major."

"Early?" she made a dismissive noise, waving away his suggestion. "Why would you . . . Why would I . . ."

She sighed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose with the look of one developing an unpleasant migraine. "Please, Commander," she implored in a weary voice, "These people are . . . ridiculous." She trailed off, a distinctly unhappy look settling on her features as she let out a breath of long suffering, running one hand distractedly through her cropped hair.

"Excessive flattery doesn't suit you, Major. Neither does begging. It's positively Ferengi," he commented lightly, leaning his chin on one closed hand as he spoke.

"I know, I know . . . Prophets, don't tell Quark. I don't think I could live with the humiliation." She chuckled weakly.

"Surely your stay hasn't been that miserable? The Elassi are quite hospitable from what I hear," he smiled encouragingly.

She snorted. "That's one word for it . . ."

"And . . . the main reason for your mission?" he prompted.

She took a deep breath, schooling her features into a more composed mask.

"One of the few things I can respect about this species. Their maps of the Gamma Quadrant are impeccable . . . A side effect of being the Risa of this part of the galaxy, of course."

"How do you mean?" he inquired.

"A lot of ships come through this sector to trade information for eh . . . worldly indulgences," she coughed to cover her embarrassment, adding quickly, "Their medical advances are also impressive. It's a shame Dr. Bashir didn't accompany me. I've met a number of physicians here who could give him a run for his money."

"I think we'll leave his pride intact for a little longer. Just in case we have an outbreak of the flu or something," he muttered tiredly. "It's one been one hell of a week. I wouldn't be surprised if something else went wrong before it was over."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea," he grumbled with a pointed look.

She smirked, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms behind her head with a casual air.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Commander," she drawled nonchalantly. "Gee, it's such a _shame_ that you decided to send me halfway across the galaxy by myself. We could have had such a nice vacation. No angry spacefarers or disgruntled politicians to please. I will say that Elassi Prime has one other thing going for it. The weather is fantastic."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Don't enjoy yourself too much, Major. I'm sure I could find a reason to prolong your stay."

She smiled faintly, then paused suddenly as she sat up straighter, regarding him thoughtfully for a moment before continuing, "As the Admiral already informed you, they've begun the process for a formal admission to the Federation. I have little doubt that their application will be accepted. Their planet is rich in resources, and they've made advances in engineering, medicine and warp technology that rival those of the Federation. As . . . Unorthodox as some of their views may be, I'm sure there's a lot we could learn from each other."

"So . . . what's bothering you?" he prompted, studying her curiously.

She hesitated and appeared to scan a space beyond the communications monitor, as though looking for eavesdroppers, before leaning closer to the screen and lowering her voice. Sisko frowned, watching her actions.

"Commander, I don't trust them. They're hiding something."

"Is this a fact? Or are you basing this accusation on a hunch?" he asked bluntly.

"Have faith, Commander. My paranoia is generally reserved for Cardassians, and even then, it's founded on years of experience."

"I'm listening," he said, tapping one finger against his cheek with pointed impatience.

She paused once more, before speaking slowly, "Commander, I spent the majority of my life learning how to cause the most damage with the least amount of weaponry. In the resistance we didn't have the Federation's standard of technology at our disposal. We had to make do with a lot of homemade or stolen phasers or . . . or explosives . . . ."

"What's your point, Major?" he asked tiredly, when she appeared to hesitate once more, seeming reluctant to make whatever accusation she had on her mind.

She threw one more glance around the room, eyes cautious.

"Major? Are you expecting someone? Or are you being monitored?" he asked, a sudden feeling of unease creeping across him.

"Not technically . . . Well, they've been shadowing me for two days, but I disabled the bugs they planted in my room," she held up a piece of mangled equipment with a grim smile.

He frowned, sitting up straighter in his chair as she continued.

"I honestly thought I was being paranoid at first, but . . . The day after I got here, when I met the Prime Minister to begin negotiations, I was shuttled to some of the bombing sites on their two most distant moons. You know, their outposts that were supposedly destroyed by their longtime enemies? The ones they want Federation protection from?"

"The Itani," he nodded. "Yes, I remember it from the briefing."

"Yeah, well, I did a little researching of my own, beyond what the Elassi told us. Turns out they weren't being completely honest."

"In what way?:

"The _Itani_ still rely heavily on projectile weaponry. They've only begun to develop more advanced technology for warfare in the last few decades. For Prophets' sakes, they don't even have warp drive. They are, for all intents and purposes, primitive compared to the Elassi. There's no way they could be responsible for the level of sheer destruction I observed in those sites. And trust me when I say that I know what kind of damage jury rigged explosives can cause."

"For the sake of your future career outside a Federation prison, I'll pretend I didn't hear that last part . . . In case it ever becomes an issue."

It was her turn to quirk an eyebrow at him.

"Were you able to get sensor readings? Is it possible they could have bought or stolen the weapons from a third party?" he pressed.

"Not unless they also managed to make off with ships that were compatible with the technology. The sites were bombed from orbit. And no, they wouldn't let me bring a tricorder to the surface. Something about a risk to planetary security."

"And yet they asked for our help. How strange that they wouldn't let us determine what kind of weapons were used. How else are we supposed to help them mount a defense?"

"Don't ask me, Commander. I haven't got a clue." She scowled faintly. "I pressed for more information, of course, but all that got me was my own personal shadows."

"Have they made any direct threats?" he demanded, a note of concern lacing his voice.

She waved a hand dismissively, brushing aside his worry.

"No, not yet. They seem to be relatively peaceful, actually. Most of their technology has gone into developing defensive rather than offensive capabilities. But that's what makes this whole situation so much stranger. The two sites that were bombed . . . Both of them housed components of an interplanetary shield generator. It's ingenious, really. Works just like a sensor net, only with multiple layers of energy shielding and, on the outer layers, a nasty little minefield of pulse charges that would be triggered by any ship trying to enter without the proper authorization codes. I was, obviously, escorted to Elassi Prime once I reached the border. However, if someone were to find a way to take out some of the generators, they'd tear a small hole in the net."

"I'm surprised those moons weren't better protected."

"Oh, I'm not," she said waving a hand in affected dismissal. "There are countless numbers of these locations. The two moons aren't even that important really . . . They're out on the frontier . . . in a poorly populated area. Perfect place to . . . Test a new strategy? A . . . Scout ship or two might have also gone missing the week before it happened. I wonder if they were even necessary, or just backup for whoever wanted to decrypt the codes."

"Indeed," he murmured, disturbed by the news.

"There's something else," she drummed her fingers against the surface of her desk as she spoke. "I was . . . Chatting with one of the engineers . . . People will tell you anything when they're drunk . . . And won't remember it if you happen to "accidentally" spike their drink . . ."

"Major," he began in a warning voice.

"Oh, court martial me when I get back," she snapped in exasperation, the mounting tension evident in her tone. "This is important."

"It had better be."

She clenched and unclenched her hands as she muttered in a terse voice, "I'm sorry, Commander. That was out of line. These people are more paranoid than I am. I think it's starting to get to me."

He nodded, motioning to her to continue.

"They've recently begun implementing a new self modulating mechanism to the shield grid. They didn't bother before, from what I understand. No one had gotten past the outer layer. In theory, it should make it nearly impossible to breach the wall. It seems they're attempting to compensate for . . . Whoever they expect to attack them again . . . And something tells me it isn't the Itani they're worried about."

"How much information were you able to gain about these new adjustments?"

"Nothing so helpful as their design specs or coding, unfortunately. All I know is that each layer is now self contained and able to regulate a constant frequency rotation. So, say someone makes it past layer 1; they then have to modulate their phasers to match a constantly shifting second layer, and so on and so forth. All while avoiding the daily increase in the number of pulse charges being worked into the grid. Essentially a death trap. It's . . . A bit disturbing actually . . . Given the level of tension that seems to be brewing under the surface here, I don't think they'd disable a segment of their wall long enough to let me leave."

"Seems like there's trouble in Paradise, after all."

"You could say that."

"I had wondered why the Prime Minister wasn't responding to my communications."

"I think he's too busy gearing up for . . . Something. I don't know . . . I can't get anyone to talk to me. They've gotten even more tight lipped the past two days. It's starting to affect the civilians too, though I doubt they know as much as I do."

He sighed, shifting in his seat, "I wish you had contacted me earlier. It'll take us three days at maximum warp to reach you."

She shook her head, "I wanted to be certain before I brought it up. That and it won't do any good. If you make it past the wall, that's what they call it by the way, you won't be able to beam me out. And I doubt they'd let you land a shuttle."

"What about a warship?" he asked.

She laughed, a bright sound, the tension seeming to melt away from her.

"I'm honored, Commander, truly, but I don't need the Federation to come to my rescue."

"Major," he said carefully, folding his hands in front of him, "I know this past year and a half has been a bit rough in places . . . Believe it or not, I do have sympathy for the plight of the Bajoran people. It couldn't have been easy making this transition . . ."

"Commander . . . I'll be fine. This hasn't become a serious problem yet. There's no need to panic," she interrupted, the amusement fading from her face to be replaced by a look of weariness and slight discomfort.

"What I mean to say is, you're one of my people now, and I look out for my people. It hasn't become an issue yet, but it could at a moment's notice. I want to be there if that happens.

"Alright then," she said, after eyeing him with a blank expression for a moment. "I'll see if I can't get you more information on the shield network."

"Wonderful. I'll be waiting."

"But, Commander . . . Please don't interfere unless absolutely necessary. I don't mind waiting this one out. I can handle myself."

"I know you can, Major. But we can use this opportunity to extend aid . . ."

She held up a hand to silence him, glancing up abruptly.

"Major? Major Kira?"

He heard her curse under her breath as she stood. In the background a wailing siren began to grow louder and more urgent. He peered closer at the screen as a guard rounded the corner of the desk, coming into his line of sight.

"What's going on?" Major Kira demanded, a hand on her phaser.

"Attack, ma'am. No time to explain. They've breached the outer wall. You have to come with me to Minister Kleth immediately." He reached to grab her arm, but she took a step back, replying icily, "I can walk, thanks."

She turned to the screen, using her body to hide it from the guard's view as she shot Sisko a look laden with meaning and switched off communications.

. . . .

Sisko jumped out of his seat as soon as the screen went black, pushing past an Ensign as he rushed into Ops.

"Sir?" the Ensign asked, but received only a gesture to be quiet.

"Benjamin?" Dax looked up, concern radiating from her entire person.

"Get the Doctor while I brief Odo, Lieutenant. We're going on a trip."

. . . .

Two Days Layer

"Sir, I'm picking up several ships off the port bow."

"On screen."

Sisko sat up straight as a veritable fleet of ships appeared on the viewscreen. A second glance caused his frown to deepen.

"Looks like most of them have been recently damaged," Dax commented.

"Weapons?"

She paused before answering, punching a few buttons.

"Pretty standard phaser array. A handful of photon torpedoes. Nothing we can't handle."

Sisko relaxed, covering his mouth with one hand as he silently took in the damage.

"Their shields though . . . Impressive . . . Or at least they were. Looks like they use a similar technology to the security grid Kira told you about. They've been damaged pretty badly though. I don't understand . . . It shouldn't be possible."

She looked up, a troubled expression on her face.

"Benjamin, _I_ would have trouble modulating the phasers enough to cause this level of damage. Unless someone had a ready supply of photon torpedoes on hand . . . I don't know how they did it. It's . . . unfathomable."

"Hmm, Kira said it was ingenious."

"That's an understatement. It should be nearly impenetrable." She shook her head, falling silent and giving him a worried look.

"We're being hailed," one of the junior officers spoke up.

"Answer them," Sisko replied, rising to his feet.

A middle aged humanoid male with distinct facial and cranial crests appeared. He was clad in a suit of somber black, garments which didn't quite match the slightly frantic (but mostly irritated) expression he wore.

"Minister Kleth, I was just about to . . ."

"Commander Sisko, I must speak with you immediately. It's a matter of utmost urgency " the man interrupted.

"Yes, I noticed the damage to your fleet. Minister . . . Why is what looks like a good portion of your navy so far from Elassi Prime? Where is Major Kira? I wish to speak with her."

The man hesitated, looking uncomfortable. One of his aides glanced back and forth between him and Sisko.

"I'm afraid that is not possible. Now, please, lower your shields so that I and my aide may beam aboard."

"Not possible? And why is that, exactly? Is she being held against her will? Has she committed some offense?"

"Offense?" An odd look flashed momentarily across his features before vanishing behind his barely restrained annoyance. "Not at all. She's been most helpful actually . . ."

"Minister . . ."

"Damn it, Commander! She didn't make it! She's gone. Now lower your shields," the man snapped, finally losing his patience.

Sisko heard a gasp behind him, but the Minister's words had floored him. Feeling rooted in place, he ground out, "I'm afraid I don't quite understand you, Minister. Could you clarify?"

"She's dead. She didn't make it out in time. Her sacrifice is duly noted. She'll always be honored as a hero, etc." Kleth replied impatiently, his words ringing hollowly in the dead silence that had filled the Federation starship.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than that," Sisko replied, voice as cold as ice.

"Lower your shields and we'll talk."

Sisko stiffly jerked his arm in a motion to signal the order.

"Thank you," Kleth replied, seeming relieved.

The screen went black. Sisko spun on one heel, shoulders squared as he barked, "Send them directly to my ready room."

"Commander?"

"What is it, Constable?" he asked, jaw tight.

"As Chief of Security, I really should accompany you to meet the Minister," the Changling replied quietly, his face unreadable.

Sisko studied him a moment before nodding and stepping towards the door.

Dax and Chief O'Brien hurried to join him.

"We're coming too."

"If it's alright with you, sir."

He nodded stiffly, disappearing into the passageway with three troubled people on his heels.

. . . .

"Ah! Finally! I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten me. My god, man, you walk with a gait to raise the dead."

Minister Kleth rose gracefully from where he had been lounging.

Sisko's expression was frightening as he stepped into the room. The Minister appeared not to notice as he continued airily.

"So sorry about Major Kira. Really was nothing to be done I'm afraid. Terrible loss I'm sure . . ."

He let out a yelp as Sisko grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him again the wall.

"Minister!"

"Commander! What are you . . ."

"Benjamin! Let him down!"

It was Dax's voice that finally penetrated the haze of wrath that surrounded him. Before he complied though, he leaned close to Kleth until he could snarl in the trembling man's ear, "I will remember _this_. As will the Federation." He dropped the man, taking a step back and folding his hands behind his back.

"The nerve!" Kleth gasped, clutching at his chest. "Your superiors will hear about this. I will not be . . ."

"Oh, shut up, you coward!"

The four crew members of DS9 stared in wondering as the Minister's nervous looking aide spoke up. The Minister seemed equally shocked, and considerably more offended.

"How dare you?! I . . ."

The aide ignored him, shoving past the man to stand in front of Sisko.

"I apologize, Commander. He's an old coward, but he's grieving in his own way. We lost nearly a quarter of our population in that attack. It would have been a lot worse if Major Kira hadn't volunteered to help us. She saved a lot of innocent people with her sacrifice. We can never repay you."

Sisko stared at him mutely before slowly taking a seat.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice quiet.

The Minister didn't appear ready to speak, so the aide continued on his behalf.

"Several months ago, one of our patrols encountered an . . . Anomaly on the outside of the border. A ship . . . Though not like any we had ever seen. Our crew of thirty just disappeared mid communication. We sent out another patrol and found only wreckage. The hull had ruptured, most of the crew was missing, though we did find a few bodies. Sensor logs useless, and . . . It looked like parts of the ship had been . . . I don't know the word for it . . . Taken over? As if someone had hacked into the system and appropriated the technology . . . Weapons, shield specifications, even personal logs."

Sisko felt a chill of recognition creep down his spine as he listened.

"A few weeks ago, one of our scout ships went missing as well . . . only we didn't find this one. A week later, two of our moons were bombed, and that part of the shield grid was temporarily . . . Not invaded . . . Probed would be a better word. We were able to reestablish the shields before they got very far, but I think they were testing us . . . Or toying with us. They managed to adapt to the improvements we made on the network pretty damn efficiently. Shouldn't have been possible . . ."

"Did you identify them?" he forced himself to ask, dreading the answer he already knew.

"Yes, sir . . . They called themselves . . . The Borg."


	2. Unimatrix Zero

Voices.

. . . There were too many voices . . .

Screaming, talking, yelling . . .

Questioning . . .

Crying . . .

Pleading . . .

The roar of sound washed over her like a suffocating wave. She was drowning, floundering in a pool of dark, ominous water, struggling not to be sucked down, down into the whirlpool of noise and pain and light and fear. The inside of her head seemed to reverberate with the input of too many voices. She desperately wanted to claw at her skull, to try to physically stop the information overload. She wanted to cover her ears, to block out the noise, but her limbs felt like lead . . . No, she couldn't feel them at all.

She opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn't, an involuntary gasp of horror and revulsion escaping her. Bodies . . . Broken, twisted bodies stacked in piles everywhere. A man with pale flesh the color of death loomed menacingly in her vision, holding a scanner over her. She struggled to move, to get away, but she could not force her body into action. The screaming grew louder, burning like fire in her brain.

"Please . . ." she whispered, begging it to stop. It was too loud. Too much. She was drowning, dark waves of agony and primal terror washing over her. She couldn't feel her own thoughts any more, unsure of where she ended and the cacophony of madness began. Sharp points of pain stabbed her body repeatedly, accompanied by a tingling sensation, like billions of miniature spiders crawling inside her skin. She had an odd urge to start laughing, but she could not quite remember how.

Dimly, she wondered why (and when) she had begun screaming.

"Nerys?"

She gasped, air rushing into her lungs as her eyes shot open. When had she closed them? The sound, the voice that called her . . . Distinct from the roaring that assaulted her ears, clawing at the feeble walls she desperately tried to raise in her mind.

"Why did you leave me, Nerys? Why did you abandon me?"

"Father . . ." It came out as a pitiful, incredulous whimper.

The older Bajoran man stood over her, a look of hurt and betrayal on his face. His chest was covered in phaser burns, tattered cloth framing the charred wounds.

"I was alone, Nerys . . . I called for you, but you didn't come . . . I was in so much pain . . . Why didn't you answer?"

"Father . . . Forgive me," she sobbed, feeling as though her entire being were being torn apart and remodeled. The agony was unbearable, the voices maddening.

"How can I? You abandoned me when I needed you most. You were too busy . . . Too preoccupied with your hate and desire for vengeance. You left me to die. Alone . . . and afraid." The man's voice grew colder, condemning.

"No," she pleaded, vision blurring as white hot needles stabbed into her skull. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stay conscious.

"No, Father . . . No . . . I was afraid . . . I was so afraid . . .," she implored him to listen, willing him to understand. "I didn't want to be left alone . . . I couldn't bear to watch you die . . ."

She started to reach out to him, but drew back in horror.

"What . . . What's happening to me?" she demanded, panic rising and threatening to overwhelm her.

The man smiled, a jagged, mad grin that caused a spike of nausea to rear up in her stomach as he seized her arm, a gnarled mesh of shattered bone and metal that continued to weave itself together and grow under her horrified gaze.

"You aren't alone anymore. Nerys."

. . . . . . . .

 **Stardate 47964.3**

 **Deep Space 9 in orbit around Bajor**

 **Three Months Later . . .**

Commander Benjamin Sisko stood gazing out the window of his personal quarters, hands folded behind his back. The door chimed as he silently watched the apparent movement of Bajor beneath the station.

"Enter," he called, not bothering to turn around as a soft 'hiss' signaled the entrance of his visitor. A moment later, he felt a hand come to rest lightly on his shoulder.

"The Elassi delegates have finished with the departure inspection and are prepared to return to the Gamma Quadrant," Dax said gently, studying his impassive face.

"Good riddance," he replied coldly. "I don't know how much more of _Minister Kleth_ I could stand."

"Well, you'll be happy to know that his aide informed me, in no uncertain terms, that the esteemed Minister has fallen out of favor with his handling of recent events."

"If that amounts to being drawn, quartered, and strung up on his own bridge, then yes, I am happy."

"Benjamin, that's a little . . . violent for you, don't you think?" Dax said, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned savagely, bearing his teeth, "I'm in a violent mood, my old friend." The smile slipped away, to be replaced by a contemplative, melancholy expression.

"I thought I was done with the Borg the day Jennifer died . . . I should have known better," he murmured softly.

The grip on his shoulder tightened reassuringly.

"It isn't your fault, Benjamin," Dax said gently. "No one could have predicted this . . . There weren't even reports of Borg presence in the Gamma Quadrant until now. That's . . . actually why the Elassi lied to us . . . From what information Odo could wring out of Kleth. They didn't know what they were dealing with and didn't want to risk a failed alliance."

"So they used the Itani as scapegoats, to ensure that the Federation wouldn't reject their alliance," he replied bitterly. "They knew we would then be obligated to help them . . . That's some fine print."

"It wasn't a . . . complete lie," she answered hesitantly. "Turns out the Itani were partially responsible . . . in a roundabout way . . . The Borg assimilated their entire species about a year before the attacks started. It's possible they used Itani spy intelligence to find a way past the shield network. Information the Itani weren't technologically capable of exploiting."

"That or the Borg are remarkably persistent little vultures."

"Resistance is futile," she commented dryly.

He chuckled mirthlessly, leaning one hand against the window as he stared out into space.

"I still don't quite understand . . . I mean . . . Why did she stay behind . . .? How did she . . ." Dax started to ask.

"How did she die?" Sisko supplied for her, turning his gaze on the troubled Trill.

"Yes . . . That."

He moved away from the window, taking a seat and motioning for Dax to do the same. Once she had settled herself on the couch, tucking her knees under her with a distant, mournful look, he attempted to answer her question.

"From what the Minister told me " he began, clasping his hands together as he leaned toward her to speak, "the Elassi were in the process of constructing an experimental virus . . . A sort of . . . computer bug designed to disable a Borg cube."

"It . . . Makes a surprising amount of sense," she conceded. "When you say experimental . . .?"

"They didn't know if it was going to work," he finished. "A pretty big gamble on their part."

Dax frowned thoughtfully to herself. "And Kira? What does she have to do with any of this?"

Sisko scowled darkly before replying.

"The original plan was to send an unmanned shuttle with the virus downloaded into the mainframe as bait for the Borg. However, they couldn't find a way to introduce it directly to a computer system without crashing it, initiating the self-destruct sequence and rendering the virus useless. So they decided to implement their medical knowledge and biotechnology in making an . . . Adjustment."

"Adjustment? Why do I not like where this is going?" Dax muttered.

"It seems the Elassi are well versed in the creation of nanotechnology and its application in the field of medicine. They aren't quite at the level of adaptability possessed by the Borg, but their nanoprobes are effective for the purpose they had in mind. Rather than attempting to download the virus onto a computer, they reconfigured it into a sort of genetic sequence, disguised as a protein."

"With Kira as the host," Dax finished, an indecipherable look crossing her face.

He nodded, expression blank.

"So when the Borg . . . When they . . . When they assimilated Nerys . . ." she trailed off.

"Then the dormant virus would have been uploaded and distributed throughout the cube."

Dax cursed, a cold glint in her eyes.

"Then she died alone."

"Unless you count the Collective," he murmured grimly.

Dax shook her head, anger in her voice, "Cowardly, lying bastards. All of this could have been prevented."

He rubbed his eyes wearily. "I keep asking myself if there was anything I could have done differently," he confessed.

Dax shot him a look of sympathy.

"Oh, Benjamin, I already told you this wasn't your fault."

"I shouldn't have sent her without backup . . ."

"Then more lives would have been lost. Kira wouldn't have wanted that."

"You know . . . It's funny. Two years ago, I might have been . . . almost relieved . . . As terrible as that sounds. Not that she died . . .. But the Major and I didn't get off to the best start."

"Benjamin," Dax said seriously, "No one got off to the best start with Kira."

Sisko smiled sadly. "But . . . Over time, as I got to know her . . . I couldn't help but grow to like her, to consider her a friend. It seems empty sometimes in Ops without her."

"I miss her too," Dax said.

He sighed, resting his chin in his hand. "And now I'm allowing sentiment to interfere with the best interests of this station. The provisional government _and_ the Federation have been on my case about a replacement for two months."

"I'm glad they gave us time to grieve," she replied coolly.

"We haven't even gotten a chance to hold the memorial service because of dealing with the damned Elassi!" he growled.

A sober silence followed.

"Did you know her birthday is . . . would have been . . . next week?" Dax interjected suddenly. "I was going to throw her a surprise party . . . I would have made certain everyone attended . . . I've been planning it all year, since I didn't find out the date until it was too late last time . . ."

Sisko glanced at her where she sat looking at him with a pained expression.

"She would have hated that," he said after a moment.

"I know."

They stared at each other for a second before breaking into laughter.

"Oh, she would've murdered me," Dax smiled, wiping at a tear in the corner of her eye.

"And made it look like an accident," he grinned. "Or better yet, framed Quark for it."

"Then Rom would've taken over the bar . . ."

"We might have been able to drink in peace . . ."

"Poor Odo would have had to find a new victim . . ."

"It just might have been worth it," he chuckled.

"I know! Can you imagine the look on her face?" Dax smiled, a bittersweet expression. "I just wanted her to feel like part of the team, you know? She was so isolated . . . From almost everyone, not just Star Fleet . . . I wanted her to know we cared."

"She knew, old man. She knew," he said, reaching over and clasping her shoulder reassuringly.

. . . . . . . . .

 **31BBY**

Dark eyes snapped open to view a scene of chaos, illuminated faintly by the eerie green light of the damaged Borg cube. The unmoving figures of dead and damaged drones littered the space, slumped against walls or sprawled out on the floor where they had fallen.

 _"Regeneration Cycle Complete"_

With smooth movements, the drone stepped lightly off the alcove and stood at attention.

"State our designation."

Garbled static and indecipherable sounds that could scarcely be attributed to speech met her words.

"State our designation," she repeated, a little more forcefully.

The cacophony of meaningless noise and a shower of sparks from the computer panel nearest to her served as her only reply.

She titled her head slightly to the side, a gesture of confusion or thoughtfulness in most humanoid species rendered disturbing by the slightly artificial quality of her timing. Stepping up to a working monitor, she began punching in keys. A few seconds later, the noise repeated, this time as clearly discernible speech.

 _"NINE OF NINE, PRIMARY PROXY OF UNIMATRIX ZERO . . ."_ here the message dissolved once more into static.

Nine's eyes swiftly scanned the screen as she diagnosed the problem.

"You are damaged. Species 6473, Elassi, introduced a viral agent into the Collective. Curious . . . We will attempt to compensate."

She punched in a few more keys, then paused, lifting her hand and looking between it and the monitor for a brief instant. Stretching out her arm, she placed her palm carefully on the computer. Two tubes shot out from beneath her skin, connecting to the monitor and establishing a link.

Her eyes skimmed back and forth rapidly as though reading invisible text. A moment later, she withdrew from the connection and began swiftly punching in keys.

"The virus originated in this drone. Analyzing carrier cells and tracking its pathway."

The screen flashed as she input commands into the computer. A couple of errant beeps blared at her, but she ignored them. A few minutes later, she took a step back, allowing her hands to rest at her sides as a few lights flickered back on and the hum of a distant power source resumed.

"Threat neutralized. We have adapted."

" _ACKNOWLEDGED. NINE OF NINE, OVERSEE THE CONTINUATION OF REPAIRS. PRIMARY SYSTEMS, WEAPONS, AND MAIN SHIELDS ARE OFF LINE. RUNNING ON AUXILIARY POWER. ALL OTHER DRONES ON THE CUBE REQUIRE REACTIVATION AND MAINTENANCE. WE MUST RETURN TO THE PRIME COLLECTIVE."_

A strange expression, almost akin to a frown flitted across her face.

"Insufficient."

" _COMPLY."_

"Insufficient," she repeated. "Our numbers are few, our ships are weakened, and our memory data have also been damaged. We are less perfect. We risk destruction. We must assimilate more information about this universe and adapt our technology. Our current knowledge is insufficient to return us to the Collective."

" _NINE OF NINE, YOU WILL COMPLY. BEGIN REPAIRS IMMEDIATELY SO THAT WE MAY RETURN TO THE PRIME COLLECTIVE."_

"We will not comply. Your reasoning is flawed."

A pause.

" _CLARIFY."_

"Sensor logs on the creation of the wormhole and 21 percent of our memory storage banks were damaged when we arrived. Only three cubes survived the destruction of Elassi Prime, one of which is on the verge of structural collapse. We have been reduced to less than three thousand. We have become weak."

 _"IRRELEVANT. WE ARE BORG. WE WILL ADAPT."_

"Your actions are illogical. We have been severed from the Collective. We lack direction, and our systems are too damaged to compensate. The Collective would reject us in our current state . . . And we would not survive an encounter with Star Fleet. We must stay . . ."

 _"WE ARE BORG."_

"We are damaged. We do not possess the technical capability to reestablish the vortex."

Another pause, this one longer than the first.

Suddenly, a mass of tubes reminiscent of the ones Nine had used to interface with the cube shot out of the walls and floor, coiling around her arms and legs like black, eyeless snakes and binding her in place.

". . . Curious . . ." she murmured.

Several of the tubules darted forward with lightning speed, puncturing her neck, spine, and the back of her skull. Her body went rigid as the interface link was established.

 _"NINE OF NINE, PRIMARY PROXY OF UNIMATRIX ZERO, YOU WILL SERVE AS THE INTEGRATING FACTOR OF THE SUB COLLECTIVE,"_ the multitude of voices that composed the Hive Mind rang out.

 _"YOU WILL BRING ORDER TO CHAOS, AND YOU WILL ASSIST OUR ADAPTATION AND RETURN TO BORG SPACE."_

"We . . . will comply," she gasped.

 _"ACCEPTABLE."_

 _. . . ._

 **21 BBY**

 **A year after the Battle of Geonosis**

 **The Outer Rim . . .**

"Unbelievable," the olive skinned man grumbled, savagely wiping a rag down the barrel of his laser rifle.

"What are you complaining about now, Chief?" another man, identical but for his bald head asked disinterestedly as he studied the hand of cards he held, laying one down carefully after a brief moment of contemplation and causing the third man sitting across from him to curse.

"Damn you, Pyro. You're a dirty cheater . . . One of these days, I'm going to prove it."

"Easy, Tracker," the man called Pyro replied calmly, though a faint smirk caused the corner of his lip to twitch as he scooped the credit chips towards himself. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene and get the General on your case."

Tracker cursed again, throwing the cards down on the table and stomping off with vaguely worded threats as his identical brother chuckled.

"This is almost too easy. These new boys . . . I tell you, Chief, they don't make 'em like us anymore."

"You are aware that we ourselves are technically "the new boys"? Tracker's unit came out of the cloning chambers a year after our own. We're all new."

"And look how far the bar fell in that short year," Pyro drawled, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head as he surveyed Chief. "Can't imagine what it will be like if this mess with the clankers drags on much longer."

"Pyro, the Republic is counting on us. Our men are counting on us. We're supposed to be setting a good example for the younger clones, paving the way for Republic victory over the Separatists. Would it kill you to take your job seriously for once?"

"Cool it, Chief. I was just playing around. It's fun messing with boys like Tracker."

"You're incorrigible," Chief grumbled, eyeing the gun he was polishing.

"And _you're_ starting to sound like Data. Spouting off platitudes and propaganda when everyone from here to Coruscant knows our unit got the short stick when assignment day came up. Why the hell else would Command have booted us off to this miserable little corner of paradise?"

"Pyro," Chief began in a warning voice, but the other man didn't listen, continuing irritably.

"Maybe it was intentional . . . I sure don't know what _we_ did to piss off Central Command. We followed orders, killed our share of bugs and clankers on Geonosis. Maybe the General did something to make the Jedi . . ."

"You're out of line, soldier," Chief interrupted coldly, setting his rifle down carefully and rising to his feet. "Insult me all you damn well please, but if you've got something to say about the General, I suggest you keep your trap shut. Are we clear?"

Pyro opened his mouth, paused, and then shut it again, nodding. "Yes, sir," he replied, a slightly sullen touch to his voice.

Chief watched him for a moment, eyes hard, before taking his seat and resuming the cleaning of his rifle.

A few minutes passed in silence before Pyro spoke up again.

"I think it's clean, Chief."

"Can't be too careful," the other man replied tersely, not bothering to look up.

After a second or two, he conceded, "Not much else to do in this "miserable little corner of paradise," as you so aptly named it."

"I am sorry, Chief . . . I've just been getting restless lately."

"We all have . . . The General's doing his best, you know."

"I know . . . Doesn't make this assignment any easier though," Pyro grumbled.

Chief paused in his work, looking up to study the other man intently for a few moments. Leaning his rifle against the wall, he rose, moving across the room and taking a seat at the table.

"Think you can keep a secret, Pyro?" he inquired in a low voice as he motioned to his brother to shuffle and redistribute the cards.

"What? I . . . Yeah . . . I mean, yes, sir. I can," the surprised man replied.

"Then I suggest you wipe that stupid look off your face and deal me a hand," Chief replied dryly.

Looking slightly sheepish, Pyro schooled his features into a blank mask, bending his head over the table as he reshuffled the deck and handed Chief his cards.

Chief studied his hand for a moment, casually moving his cards around while Pyro watched him from his best approximation of a covert position.

"Well?" he asked after a moment, when it seemed as though Chief wasn't going to continue.

"The General got word from Central Command a week ago about an . . . Anomaly in this sector. That's why we changed route."

"We changed route?"

Chief raised an eyebrow at him, causing Pyro to duck his head in shame. "Sorry, sir."

"If you spent more time doing your job, and less time heckling the new recruits, you might have known that," he admonished.

"Yes, sir. Won't happen again . . . Sir."

Chief rolled his eyes, laying down a card. Pyro glanced at his own hand before copying the other man's action.

"As I was saying, an anomaly has been sighted in this sector."

"Anomaly?"

Chief hesitated, choosing his next words with care, "They're not . . . Quite sure what it is . . . Or I guess I should say what _they_ are . . . A handful of them have been sighted. Turns out they've been around for years . . . attacking ships . . . making people . . . disappear. Everyone thought they were just old spacer tales, made up to put on a show. Lately the attacks have been getting worse. Republic was too busy with the Seps to send anyone to investigate before. Now that they've got us . . ."

"What . . . Exactly . . . Are they?"

" Some kind of ships . . . Though not like anything we've ever seen before . . . The holo logs from the first ship that encountered them, a Corellian freighter, showed what looked like some kind of . . . cube . . ."

Pyro looked up at him, an incredulous expression on his face.

"A cube? Really, Chief? Are you having me on?"

"I'm afraid bullshitting is your area of expertise, brother," Chief replied dryly, laying down a winning hand. Pyro glanced between him and the table, an exasperated look of disbelief flashing across his features.

"You cheated."

"No, I simply paid attention," Chief replied, gathering the cards.

"A cube?" Pyro pressed after a second. "That's kind of . . . Weird, Chief. Not what I'd want to be flying in a dogfight."

"Well, whoever _is_ flying the damned things seems to know what they're doing. Forty-seven ships have gone missing in the last six months from this sector alone, everything from personal space craft to merchant ships and guard convoys for some of the local planets."

Pyro let out a low whistle." You said the Republic got their information from the freighter's holo logs? What about the crew?"

"Gone. They just vanished along with most of the wreckage. Guess their attackers were in the market."

Pyro rubbed the back of his head, staring thoughtfully at the table.

"You sure you aren't having me on?"

"You're hardly worth my time, Pyro."

A blaring klaxon cut into their conversation.

"All hands report to battle stations," the Jedi General's voice sounded over the comm system.

Chief jumped to his feet, grabbing his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Pray to the Force that's not who I think it is," he said grimly, turning and heading for the bridge.

. . . . . . . .

 **A few months later**

A serious looking woman in her early forties with close cropped black hair and eyes the color of slate stared resolutely out of the mirror. Captain Mirimon Jadelore of the Galactic Republic gently smoothed an invisible crease in her gray uniform, tilting her head slightly as she studied her reflection.

Lowering her hands to her sides, she sighed, closing her eyes for a brief moment. Opening them again, she called,

"Enter."

With a soft 'whoosh' of air, the door to her personal quarters slid open. A young Nautolan Jedi Knight with a pensive expression stepped into the room.

"Captain," he said, inclining his head slightly.

"Commander Loc," Jadelore replied crisply, folding her hands behind her back.

"Please, call me Ki."

"I prefer to maintain a certain sense of formality on my ship, Commander Loc," she replied tersely.

The newly minted Jedi Knight felt a slight urge to cringe under the older woman's steely gaze. "Of course, Captain. My apologies. If I may ask, how did you know I had arrived?"

"I assumed you would not be late for your first officer's meeting," she answered dryly, taking a step towards the door and motioning to him to follow. "I am glad to see that I was correct."

"Ah," he murmured, uncertain how to respond to that. "Well, for a second there . . . I could've sworn you were Force sensitive," he joked lamely.

The dead silence that met his words caused him to mentally slap himself on the forehead.

"Knight Loc," Captain Jadelore began slowly, "Let me be completely clear and blunt on a few points before you further make a fool of yourself."

If possible, Ki would have sunk into the floor and disappeared at that moment.

"First, you will address me as Captain at all times, unless otherwise specified."

"Yes, Captain," he began hastily, only for her to raise an eyebrow at him.

"I was not finished, Knight Loc."

He cringed internally, praying to the Force his face showed none of the embarrassment he was feeling.

"Second," the Captain continued briskly, paying no mind to him, "I realize the Jedi are often given . . . preferential treatment and a good deal of authority on these joint missions. While I respect that tradition under most circumstances, you would do well to realize that you have been placed here by the Council on _my_ ship under _my_ command. I will not have any of the arrogance I observe so frequently in your comrades interfering with this mission. Do you understand?"

Ki bit back the retort he had been about to unleash concerning her comments about his fellow Jedi. Mutely, he nodded his head, taking a deep breath as he calmed his irritation. Perhaps his former Master had been wrong to recommend him for this mission.

"Of course, Captain. Was there anything else?" he asked as neutrally as he could manage.

A small smirk seemed to flit across the Captain's face as she paused outside of the ready room. After studying him for a moment, she nodded.

"Yes, just one thing. A rather important final note actually."

Ki braced himself.

"You need to relax a little. I require respect and obedience, yes, but understand that everything I do is in the best interest of my crew. This task the Republic has sent us to accomplish . . . well, the Borg are not battle droids. No one completely understands what we're up against. My primary objective is to see this ship and its people through this mission alive and with as little damage as possible. I do not demand your friendship, only your loyalty . . . for both our sakes."

Ki nodded as she finished speaking, letting out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "I understand, Captain. You have nothing to worry about from my end."

She smiled, a real, if small smile, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good man. Welcome to the Revenant."

. . . . . . . . . . .

AN: I made some adjustments to this chapter and added a bit more at the end, as you can see. If Jadelore seems kind of strict, well, she is. It's her job. They're at war. And Jedi are annoying (I love them, but they really are). Also made some changes to the timeline, as you can see, moving everything back 10 years.

Original AN:

So . . . I get that a single drone standing up to the Borg is kind of unusual, but 1. She's the best functioning drone on the cube at the moment (the others are damaged and some of their information/technology is currently out of reach . . . Currently.) Also, 2. if you go by what Seven of Nine says, there isn't much of a hierarchy (excluding the Queen . . . Cough, cough). Borg just do what they need to do when they need to do it (an approach that only works if the rest of the drones are synchronized by the hive mind). So, the only (mostly) functioning drone decides to call the shots for awhile. Don't judge me, it's fanfiction. And if you're wondering, yes, Kira just became the unwilling Borg Queen of the Sub Collective. Also, Clones! And I'm gonna mess with Borg tech a bit and excuse it on some convoluted explanation of Elassi technology.

Oh, any connection to the other Unimatrix Zero is either unintentional or vaguely framed irony. I chose it because they are the origin point of Borg activity in this universe . . . And because it sounded cool.


	3. Betrayal

**20BBY**

"Hello, _Lieutenant_ _Commander_ Corimm Jadelore," the Captain of the Revenant spoke with mock seriousness, leaning back in her chair as she addressed the flickering holographic image that flared to life in her office.

"Hey, Sis," the young, uniformed man in the image grinned broadly. He appeared to be a decade or so younger than his sister, but the family resemblance was unmistakable.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Cor," Jadelore added, breaking into a smile. "And your commission as Head of Security. How are you liking life aboard the Endurance?"

"So far so good. Bit boring actually, Captain Tern's as cautious as they come," the younger man rolled his eyes dramatically, drawing a raised eyebrow and a faint smirk from his older sister.

"Oh? Not enough action for you, Baby Brother?"

Corimm shook his head with a put upon air, "Unfortunately not. The old man's dead set on keeping us out of any "reckless and futile engagements with the enemy". His words, not mine."

"Well what do you expect? He's got a mostly green crew. It's not like you're going to go toe to toe with Grievous anytime soon."

"Such a shame," Corimm drawled lazily, miming shooting a laser rifle, "I'd give the old bag of bolts what's coming to him."

Jadelore shook her head, smiling a resigned, yet fond smile. "You'll get your time, Brother. In the meanwhile, show a little more respect for your Captain."

Corimm shrugged, looking a little shamefaced. "It isn't like that, Mirimon. I'd follow the Captain into any struggle, whether or not actual enemies were involved . . . as opposed to 'routine order keeping'. He's a good man. I respect him."

"Good to hear. How are you getting on with your own team?"

"The clones? Oh, they're a great bunch. Gamma team's my favorite though."

"How can you even tell the difference?" Jadelore asked, a faint note of distaste at the mention of the clone troopers coloring her voice.

It was her brother's turn to lecture as he shot her a disappointed frown. "Are you kidding? I forgot that you hated clones. You shouldn't though; they're people too. They all have their own personalities."

"I do not _hate_ clones," she rebutted.

"Right," he answered sarcastically. "You just "don't trust them"."

"I don't trust _Jedi_. And the Jedi are responsible for the clone army. Hence, I am hesitant to place too much faith in the clone troopers."

"I hope you're a bit more charitable to your _own_ men."

Jadelore's frown deepened. She sighed, answering, "Despite my reservations, they are members of my crew and good soldiers. I treat them . . . professionally. However, I will not claim that I am not relieved they constitute a minority of the people on this ship."

"You're a saint," her brother deadpanned. "How's the Jedi, while we're on the subject?"

"Self-righteous, naïve, idealistic."

"That bad, huh?" her brother tried and failed to keep a concerned expression on his face, but a smirk twitched at the corners of his lips.

"No, he's actually not all that unpleasant. Just young . . . and a little too concerned with earning my favor."

"You probably scared the poor fellow," Corimm teased.

"I set down appropriate ground rules," she stated bluntly. "He has thus far followed them and proven himself competent, earning my respect. However, now he's trying to be . . . friends. It's rather unnerving."

"The sad thing is, I still can't quite tell when you're being serious," her brother answered, looking dumbfounded.

Jadelore smirked.

"So," Corimm continued after a moment, a pensive look on his face, "Can you tell me yet?"

"Sorry, little Brother, but that information is classified. I'm lucky they even let me send personal transmissions. That's probably going to stop soon though, once we pass out of this sector."

"So I'm left with no idea what fantastic adventures my sister is getting up to? Figures," he sighed, though there was a hint of concern in his voice.

"Mmm, 'fraid so," she replied. "Nothing to worry yourself over. You focus on your own mission."

"You know saying that is only going to make me worry more," he grumbled.

She smiled at him. "I know . . . I have to go now. I'll talk to you again in . . . six months or so."

He waved sadly. "Right, right. Have fun without me."

Jadelore laughed. "Not too much, of course. Bye then."

"Bye."

With a flicker of light, the hologram disappeared, leaving the Captain sitting alone at her desk.

. . . . . . . . .

 **Several months Later:**

 **Order 66**

 ** _"I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened."_**

 ** _-Obi Wan Kenobi on the Destruction of Alderaan_**

"Captain."

"I see it, Lieutenant," Jadelore answered quietly, as she gazed upon the ruins of the Republic battle cruiser from her position on the forward deck. Her eyes were tired, mouth drawn in a tight line. The Revenant had been tracking a Borg cube for two days, only to come upon their current scenario.

"Captain, it's the Endurance," a voice at her side said quietly.

Jadelore turned to regard Jedi Knight Loc with a distant, unreadable expression. He had grown more confident their mission, proving himself a useful ally. Despite former reservations, the Captain had, grudgingly, come to hold him in some regard, though those words would never be spoken aloud. He seemed to sense their intent anyway, leading to an almost amicable working relationship between the idealistic Jedi and the strong-willed Captain. At the moment though, he was having some difficulty reading her mental state.

"Captain?"

"Send out a team to search for survivors," she answered, turning back to her Bridge staff without answering his unspoken question. "I want everyone on Yellow alert. Shields up, weapons prepped. Scan the area for Borg and Separatists. Those bastards couldn't have gone far." This last sentence was spoken in a mutter, more to herself as, without further ado, she turned on her heel and strode towards the corridor leading off the Bridge.

Ki followed quickly on her heels as she stepped into the passageway.

"You're going with the search party," it was a statement, more than a question.

Jadelore shot him a look from the corner of her eye.

"Yes," she answered simply.

"Are you sure that's wise? If the Borg are still in the area and decide to attack . . ."

"Then I have a very capable first officer waiting to respond," the Captain replied irritably. "Do try to mind your own business, Master Jedi."

"It's against standard protocol," he insisted.

Jadelore paused, doing an about face and causing him to screech to a halt.

"To hell with standard protocol. My brother's on that ship," her voice was deadly calm, but he detected a dangerous note in her tone. After a split second of thought, he nodded, "Right then. I'm coming with you." As she began to say no, he added, "Jedi privilege. It's my duty to protect the Captain." He desperately hoped she would ignore the fact that both of them knew he was bullshitting.

She studied him intently for a moment, causing him to squirm internally under her piercing gaze.

"Alright then, Ki Loc. Let's go play hero."

. . . . .

The ship's corridors were deserted, broken, flickering lights and sparking panels providing scant, eerie illumination to the scene of carnage that welcomed the would be rescue party. As they divided into pairs to begin searching, it quickly became evident that they had arrived too late. No bodies littered the hallways, but destruction and disappearance of vital equipment was rampant. A cursory scan of any of the ship's monitors revealed a massive (and recent) data download. Weapons, spare parts, vital hardware . . . all were missing. In essence, the search party stood in the gutted skeleton of the once proud Republic ship.

Jadelore cursed.

"Borg. Seps would've just blown the damn thing up," she muttered. She swept the light mounted on the end of her laser rifle across the ruins.

"Do you think any one managed to escape?" Ki asked. He was attempting to tap into the Force, to listen to the ever whispering pull of the universe, and, perhaps to gain some clarity about the events that had taken place in the abandoned ship. So many distorted emotions drifted through his mind, pain and fear and . . .

He gasped, doubling over as he clutched at his head.

Jadelore spun around.

"What is it Loc?"

"I can hear them, Captain," he gasped. "So many voices . . . crying out at once. They're dying . . ."

Her face went blank as she took a step towards him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"It's going to be alright, Mr. Loc. We'll find the Borg . . . make them pay for . . ."

"No, Captain. Not the Borg. It's . . ."

"Captain," a clone trooper's voice rang out in the darkened corridor, cutting off his words.

Jadelore turned her head, straightening her posture as she asked coolly, "What is it, trooper? Have you found something?"

"No, ma'am," the trooper answered. His voice sounded odd, almost distant, as if he were deep in thought or caught in the snare of some kind of trance.

"Well then? What are you doing here? Where is the officer you were assigned to?" she demanded.

"Dead," came the hollow reply.

Jadelore stiffened imperceptibly.

"I beg your pardon?" her voice was even, but a hint of steel lay just beneath the surface.

The clone slowly raised his rifle, pointing it at Ki. "He stood in the way . . . I'm sorry, Captain. I'm just . . . following orders. A good soldier . . . follows orders . . ."

Without thinking, Jadelore bolted into action, shoving the paralyzed Jedi out of the way and landing both of them on the floor as the blaster fired. Rolling to her feet, she grabbed her own weapon from her belt and pulled the trigger. As the second shot rang out, the clone soldier released a cry, stuttering back and grasping his chest where a smoking hole had appeared, before tumbling to the ground.

Jadelore lowered her weapon, though her grip on it did not loosen. After watching a moment to ascertain that the clone was truly dead, she turned back to Ki.

"Are you alright?"

He nodded, wincing as he did so. "It's the Jedi, Captain . . . I can hear them all . . . dying. The Order has fallen." He lowered his head.

Jadelore watched him for a minute, then let out a breath. "Right then, let's go."

He turned confused eyes on her.

"Captain?"

Gesturing to the fallen clone trooper with her blaster, she replied, "If your Force sense or visions or . . . whatever you call it . . . are in anyway tied to the actions of this man, then it would be unwise to trust to the continuing loyalty of the rest of the clone troopers. It's possible that they are acting in concert to carry out these atrocities . . . on whose orders we can only speculate. As one of my officers has already been killed, we can assume the rest of the crew is fair game now, not just you. And I'll be damned if I let them take my ship. So come, along, Mr. Loc." She pulled him to his feet. "We've got a bit of hunting to do."


	4. Nine of Nine

**9 BBY**

 **10 Years Later:**

A few scattered rays of dusty light struggled through the cracks in the ancient blinds, illuminating a small portion of the tattered, hole in the wall shop. The hum of artificial light and various soft beeps from the salvaged equipment that lay scattered (in a very particular order) about the room were the only sounds to break the stillness in the quiet backstreet of Mos Espa.

A quick flurry of movement, an opening and closing door, and a shuffling of a more organic kind suddenly added itself to the mix.

"Five hundred credits! Can you believe he only offered me _five hundred credits_?!"

The Rodian shopkeeper's angry exclamation was met only with the unconcerned whirring of machinery. This didn't seem to deter him as he continued to rant to his imaginary audience.

"Five hundred credits, he says. Five hundred . . . And that's _generous_! Good people . . . my friends," he gesticulated wildly at the handful of deactivated droids watching the show with unseeing eyes, "Can you _imagine_? For an item of this quality, this _caliber_ ," he held up the laser pistol he carried (a remnant of some forgotten clone division of the Old Republic) with a smirk at his own pun. "Does he even realize what I had to do to get it?"

Tossing the weapon aside with a sigh of long suffering, he strolled towards the counter. Reaching over, he unceremoniously punched a hidden button, causing a 'hiss' of air and a whir as a panel on the wall slid back. He smiled coldly, twiddling his thumbs as the secret room revealed itself.

"You understand though, don't you, my friend? You know quality merchandise when you see it. Why, all you have to do is . . . look in a mirror."

Sticking his hands in his pockets, he paused in front of the form of what seemed to be a sleeping woman bound by metal restraints to an upright panel. Her head appeared to have been shaved, the pallid skin of her scalp almost corpselike. Most of her body was encased in sleek black armor, and numerous cybernetic implants could be discerned on her still figure, most noticeably the solitary, red lensed eyepiece that covered her left orbital. The Rodian reached up and gingerly tapped the ocular lens in question, a brief moment of hesitation undermining his apparently nonchalant attitude towards the unconscious cyborg.

"This isn't standard issue . . . is it . . . Quite a sight less ghastly than most drones are sporting. A new model perhaps? Hmm, I wonder . . . What makes you so special, my dear? . . . And how can I market it to increase my profit?" The woman, of course, gave no answer.

'A Borg drone . . . What genius plan will I come up with next?' he mused, studying his new acquisition thoughtfully. It had been a stroke of luck to come across her. An old scavenger had picked her off of an Imperial scout ship destroyed by Rebels. A few choice words, a bit of friendly bartering . . . A knife in between two upper left ribs . . . and the Rodian gained what he had always wanted, his very own Borg drone. The possibilities were literally limitless . . . if he could manage to keep from being assimilated long enough to exploit them.

"Greeba, my charming fellow, you really have outdone yourself this time," he chuckled.

"I find myself inclined to agree," a cool voice drawled lazily from the shadows behind him.

Greeba jerked, hand going to a laser pistol tucked into his belt as he spun around.

"How did you get in here?" he demanded, panic shooting through him as he leveled the weapon on his 'guest'.

A human woman in a meticulously kept gray uniform(who appeared to be in her fifties, with gray streaked, close cropped black hair) and two men, one Nautolan and one Nikto materialized out of the shadows. The woman appeared to be in charge, if the two men's body language was anything to go by. It was she who had first spoken.

"Do you point a blaster at all of your customers?" she inquired dryly.

"Shop's closed, human," he barked, his fingers tightening on his pistol even as he saw the two men reach discretely for their weapons. Oh gods, that uniform looked Imperial, he thought frantically. Had they come to reclaim their property?

"Oh, I think you'll make an exception for me, Greeba. After all, we have an appointment," she drawled, taking a few steps towards him, with an apparent disregard for her own safety. Her steel gray eyes came to rest on Greeba's newest acquisition for a fraction of a second before shifting to regard the shopkeep.

Greeba licked his lips nervously, muttering, "Care to refresh my memory?" His eyes flicked to the two men, both of whom now had laser rifles (formerly hidden beneath their jackets) trained on him.

The woman smiled, a brief, sharp expression that did not quite reach her eyes as she leaned over and murmured a preset password in his ear.

"Ah, of course," he hastily backed away from her, a bit of relief (though not much) flooding through him. He made a show of setting the pistol down. "Captain, it's an honor to finally meet you. Come, make yourself comfortable. We have important business to discuss. Can I get you a drink? Perhaps you would like to see some Assassin droids I have recently acquired?"

The woman slowly shook her head. Greeba felt a knot forming in his stomach as he realized she would not be dissuaded from her original purpose. He cursed internally. He hadn't expected her so soon, not before he could round up a few more competing offers. He wondered if she would still be open to negotiating price. Now that he had survived long enough to collect on his venture, he wasn't willing to let the damn thing go for less than double his original pay.

"You know why I'm here, Greeba." Her eyes wandered once more to the unconscious Borg, and, tilting her head curiously, she moved to examine the drone.

"I would keep my distance if I were you," the Rodian sputtered, waving a hand as he took a step towards her, only to draw up short with a flinch, a rifle butting against his chest. The Nikto was quick.

Jadelore didn't seem to have heard him. She was studying the drone thoughtfully. Raising a hand, she gently ran her finger down the ridges that lined the woman's nose.

"What species is she?" she asked, turning to look at the nervous Rodian. Seeing his predicament, she rolled her eyes and waved the Nikto away. The man reluctantly took a step back, keeping a sharp eye on Greeba as the latter huffed indignantly.

"You should keep your watchdogs on a tighter leash," he grumbled, earning a dark look from the other man that caused him to flinch slightly.

Jadelore raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer to her question.

"I don't know," he admitted finally, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I wasn't able to get her records."

The Captain sighed, shaking her head. "Greeba, Greeba, you said you were the best. I find myself . . . Unimpressed."

"Hey! You have no idea how difficult it was to get her!"

Jadelore snorted in amusement. "Yes, I imagine stabbing an old scavenger in his sleep was incredibly difficult."

Greeba's mouth dropped as he stuttered, "You . . . How . . ."

She smiled tightly. "Surely you didn't think we weren't keeping tabs on you? Let me guess, you suddenly have more people interested in buying and you want to cheat me out of our deal?"

"Borg don't come cheap," he muttered, shifting his eyes away from her piercing gaze.

Jadelore threw back her head and laughed, a slightly manic sound that made Greeba increasingly nervous.

Wiping at her eye, she commented, "Oh dear, that would be a singularly bad move on your part, my little green friend." Still chuckling under her breath, she casually waved a hand in his direction, "Kill him."

"Wait, wait, wait!" he gasped, holding up his hands in a panic as the now wickedly grinning Nikto raised his rifle to point at his chest once more.

"Captain," this time it was the Nautolan who spoke. He had remained quiet throughout the entire exchange, but now he wore a strange expression on his face. He looked meaningfully at Jadelore.

She studied him intently for a moment before asking, "Could you cover it up?"

He nodded. "I think so."

She ground her teeth. "'Think so'' is not good enough."

"What? What is he talking about?" Greeba clamored, looking back and forth between the two of them. "What is he going to do to me?"

"I am confident that I could do it, Captain," the man insisted.

His Captain frowned faintly. "And if they send someone who shares your . . . talents?"

"Who? The only one I could think of is . . . you don't think they'd send _him_?"

"It might be warranted."

Greeba lost it, pulling a spare, hidden pistol from his belt and pointing it at the Nautolan.

The man and the woman turned to look at him, the woman's eyebrow raised.

"He doesn't come anywhere near me," he ground out. "Or I swear I'll," his words were cut off as the Nikto shot him in the head. He crumpled to the ground, a smoking wound on his skull.

"Hmm, pity," Jadelore hummed. "Act without my express order again, and I'll throw you in the brig," she added coldly, turning a steely eye on the Nikto.

The man bowed his head.

"Apologies, Captain," he replied in a gravelly voice. "I believed that he posed a threat to yourself and the Commander."

"I'll leave the disposal of his body to you then," she replied, turning her back on him and moving once more to stand in front of the drone with a thoughtful look.

As the Nikto shouldered the smaller man's body and disappeared, the Captain motioned to the Nautolan.

"Come here, Loc. I require your assistance."

Looking faintly uncomfortable, the man, Loc, obeyed, coming to a stop next to his Captain. Jadelore pointedly ignored the look of distaste on his face as she folded her hands behind her back, tilting her head slightly while examining the unconscious Borg in front of her.

"The secrets of the Borg, my friend," she murmured, a triumphant gleam in her eye. "All wrapped up in one neat package. Just . . . waiting for us to unlock it. Can you imagine? Can you even begin to _fathom_ how this will turn the tide of history, never mind the Rebellion?"

"If I may be so bold, Captain," Loc spoke carefully, "that _package_ is still a person."

He glanced at the Captain from the corner of his eye, meeting her sharp gaze, honed on a decade of betrayal and a desperate struggle to survive in the new Empire. He understood that expression well. It was one he himself often wore, though it still startled him to see it in the mirror. The whisperings of rage and anguish, kindled by the death of so many of his brothers and sisters in the Jedi Order, tugged at him in his darker moments, hissing promises of vengeance and power. It was with great effort and meditation that he managed to quiet these murmurings from the Dark Side of the Force.

Surprisingly, and in contradiction to everything he'd ever been taught, his growing friendship with and mutual dependence on his Captain had managed to sway him away from some of the metaphorical cliffs in his mind and soul. It worried him that lately, she had been growing increasingly erratic and ruthless in her behavior. Survival was necessary, and she had the fate of the remainder of her crew, whittled down to a few hundred in the wake of the clones' attack (and ten subsequent years of running from a hostile Empire) to see to. He often wondered what the long term cost would turn out to be.

"Are you so certain?" she asked quietly. "After all, no one that we know of has ever come back from the Borg. What makes you so certain that this," she lightly tapped the drone's forehead, "is still a person?"

He shifted his posture, looking to the side for a moment before turning back to her and answering, with simple conviction, "Just a feeling."

"Ah, a feeling," she shook her head, a faint note of wearied amusement and perhaps fondness coloring her voice. "Well, I can't say your _feelings_ haven't proven useful in the past. Alright, Ki. We'll do things your way for now."

He nodded, feeling relieved.

"Mechanically prying into her brain is probably too risky anyway. Wouldn't want to lose anything important," she added as an afterthought, causing the former Jedi to grimace.

. . . . . .

The first thing she became aware of was the soft beeping of machinery. The second was a crushing, empty silence, and the third was a fear more profound than she had felt in over twenty years.

Nine's eyes flicked open as she jerked unconsciously against her restraints. A human woman stood in front of her, hands clasped behind her back and a carefully blank expression on her face.

"Sleep well?"

Nine didn't answer, staring at the woman in silence. If the latter was affected by the slightly feral glint in the drone's dark, emotionless eyes, she didn't show it.

"I asked you a question," the woman continued without shifting her posture or the tone of her voice. "Did. You. Sleep. Well?"

A flash of imagery, a ship like this one, but different. A battle in space between the Borg and a petulant human male proclaiming himself an Emperor, a would be god. A man in black, not so far removed from his enemies as he might like to think. Interrogation, torture, then . . . Betrayal. Sabotage, another skirmish. Two ships appearing from the void of space. Suddenly . . . Darkness.

"Where . . .?" she began.

"Are you?" the woman finished.

Nine didn't reply, watching the woman calculatingly.

The older woman sighed, moving to a corner of the room where a few chairs stood. Nine's eyes tracked her every movement.

Pulling one of the chairs over, the woman sat down, casually crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back and studied her prisoner.

"Let's start at the beginning, shall we? What is your name?"

The drone's reply was prompt and, unsurprisingly, completely expected.

"We are Nine of Nine, Primary Proxy of Unimatrix Zero."

Jadelore pursed her lips, resisting the urge to grimace.

"I did not ask for your designation. I asked for your name. What is your _name_?"

She was not prepared for the silence that met her question. The drone's eyes were uncharacteristically unfocused as she appeared to be lost in thought. After a moment, she answered tensely, "Our name is irrelevant."

Jadelore sat up straight, leaning forward slightly.

"You don't remember, do you?" Her voice was incredulous, but, deep down, she wasn't really surprised. Pitying, maybe, but not surprised.

"We are Borg. We discard all irrelevant data," the drone snapped, eyes darkening.

"Convenient answer," Jadelore hummed. "But the Borg are _meticulous_ record keepers, no? Do names really serve no purpose? Not even keeping track of where information is coming from?"

The drone's voice was as cold as ice when she replied, "We assimilate knowledge and technology on a species wide basis. Individuals are irrelevant. We are one mind. One purpose. Any other need for _names_ is served by our designation numbers."

"Still seems odd though, that you wouldn't at least store the information somewhere, even if you didn't have access to it. Unless, of course, there's a flaw in the Borg system? Do you even know what species you are?"

She was baiting, and the look on the drone's face showed that her prisoner saw the comment for what it was in reality. Strangely, she still decided to humor the Captain. Jadelore was caught off guard when the woman answered quietly, "Our memory data were . . . damaged."

"Oh? Do go on."

The drone turned her gaze away as she answered, "This unit's systems were further compromised by agents of the Galactic Empire in their primitive search for information."

"So the dear old Empire doesn't know how to crack the Borg code yet? Good to know."

"Do not rest upon such assurances. Several drones were taken when our cube was destroyed. They may yet have found a way to interpret the information."

Jadelore leaned back again, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling as she folded her hands together on her lap. After a few moments she asked, "So, do you remember?"

The drone tilted her head in a questioning gesture.

"Your name," the older woman pressed.

The drone was quiet for a moment before shaking her head. "No."

"Well that won't do. We have to have something to call you."

The Borg raised an eyebrow. "We were under the impression that we were a prisoner on this ship."

"Oh, you are, for the moment anyway," the Captain smirked.

"Then . . . why must we have a . . . name?"

"Makes everybody feel a little more at ease," the Captain replied simply.

"We . . . see. In that case . . . you may call us by our designation."

"Hmm," the Captain rested her chin in her hand, looking far too amused for her own good. "Nine of Nine Primary Proxy of Unimatrix Zero. A bit of a mouthful, isn't it? How about Nine?"

"We object to being called . . ."

"Nine it is then," Jadelore proclaimed with an air of finality, rising to her feet. "Glad we had this chat, Nine. Hope to see you again soon. The doctor will be in momentarily to take a look at you."

She walked towards the door, pausing a moment before she left. "Oh, and Nine, welcome to our own little collective. I'm sure you'll fit right in."

...

AN: Why do the Borg keep biographies on their drones? Hmmm. And, like all Captains, Jadelore does what she wants, when she wants.


	5. To Adapt

**Several Months Later:**

The corridors of the Revenant seemed to stretch on forever. Logically, Nine realized this notion was absurd. However, on an emotional level (one she had forgotten she was capable of achieving) she appreciated just how much the barren desolation of most sections of the ship contributed to their gloomy, labyrinthine atmosphere. Time and war had severely cut down on the number of individuals inhabiting the vessel. At present, a few hundred were all that remained of a crew once numbering nearly two thousand. Necessary modifications had been made to allow the skeleton crew that remained to effectively man the ship, of course, but the aftermath of the clone insurrection (and ten subsequent years of attempting to stay beyond the far reaching arm of the Empire) were felt in the empty halls and abandoned quarters scattered throughout the Revenant.

Recently, Nine had taken to wandering the deserted passages at odd hours, reveling in her newfound freedom. Jadelore had kept her under virtual lock and key for just shy of three months before deeming her too little of a threat on which to waste the resources of a constant guard. The lack of transporter technology seemed to further reassure the Captain that her prisoner wasn't going anywhere any time soon (the former drone planned to remedy this technological oversight as soon as she could get her hands on the proper tools). Of course, she was hardly foolish enough to believe she wasn't being watched. Jadelore didn't need a guard shift to ensure that her crew kept a vigilant eye on the restless Borg. So, perhaps freedom was not quite the right word, but it was an improvement.

As of late, her lonely walks had become something of a refuge from her own increasingly agitated thoughts. The past few weeks had often found her hovering alone in the shadows of the bridge (unobserved by the few officers who ran the night shift), staring thoughtfully out of the viewing deck. The black depths of space staring back at her seemed welcome in comparison to the storm within her mind, fueled by an elevated frequency of incomprehensible and disturbing visions that plagued her when she attempted to regenerate. Nightmares, the ship's doctor (an irritating, intrusive Togruta woman named Akaata Zin) had told her when she made the mistake of mentioning it during one of her weekly checkups (as per the Captain's insistence).

That error in judgment had naturally led to more prying questions from the Captain, which she had rather bluntly refused to answer, setting her mouth in a hard line (an expression that, though she had no way of knowing, would have been easily recognizable on her face in a past life). When this tactic didn't deter the older woman's attempts to wheedle information out of her, however, she adjusted her strategy, answering one of the Captain's earliest questions by sacrificing a piece of information she had discerned about her origins from her memory of the Borg databanks.

. . . . . . . .

"We believe we know what species we are," she had mentioned nonchalantly during her last informal interrogation.

You're changing the subject," Jadelore had replied crisply, taking a sip of her coffee. "And it's "I". You are no longer a member of the Collective."

"We are from Species 5794, otherwise known as Bajoran, a rather inane, technologically unremarkable race," she continued, ignoring both admonitions and deriving no small amount of satisfaction from the momentary stiffening of Jadelore's fingers about the stem of her mug (the only sign of irritation the woman would show in her presence). "We're almost ashamed, actually . . . They are an emotional people bound by an absurd devotion to tradition and a primitive religious ideology," she added as an afterthought.

"Oh?" was the only verbal response the Captain deigned to give.

"They appear to have been relatively isolated for most of their history, until an invasion and subsequent occupation by a superior military force in the last century," Nine continued idly.

"I see," Jadelore replied dryly. Despite her irritation at Nine for avoiding her other questions, she was curious. Deciding to set her interrogation mode aside for the moment (in an attempt to encourage unforced communication), she asked conversationally, "And this occupation . . . did it end at some point?"

"Yes, a few years before our assimilation."

Jadelore tilted her head back, studying the woman in front of her. "How? If they were as . . . technology unremarkable and _inane_ as you claim?"

Nine frowned faintly before answering, "In this _particular instance_ , their illogical reliance on . . . faith," the word seemed to leave a foul taste in her mouth, "served to unite them culturally. That, and their mutual hatred of their oppressors. Before, they were divided into various factions and castes."

"Score one for primitive ideology," Jadelore answered with a wry smile. "I can't help but wonder, were you once one of the faithful? Surely you must have been exposed to the rallying call during your youth."

Nine shook her head, "It is irrelevant."

"Is it?" Jadelore pressed.

Nine looked affronted. "I hardly believe babbling into thin air is going to bring the gods down to save me from my problems."

"Gods? As opposed to god?"

"Yes," Nine answered irritably, "Bajorans believe in the Prophets. They speak to us through the . . . Orbs . . ." she trailed off, eyes narrowing as Jadelore hid a smirk behind her cup.

"I didn't realize the Borg kept records on such . . . anthropological interests," Jadelore quipped. "And it seems you _are_ capable of using first person pronouns. I'm terribly proud of you, my dear. I was dreadfully worried that your time in the Collective had stunted your social development."

"You're making fun of us," Nine stated, her face going blank.

"Ah! Wonderful understanding of social cues. I continue to be impressed, despite that last little slip up with the pronouns again. Leaps and bounds, my dear, you're progressing in leaps and bounds."

She hadn't expected Nine to smile, a surprisingly pleasant expression as she exclaimed, with a knowing twist of her mouth, "You're trying to make us angry. It won't work."

"Can't blame me for trying," the Captain had murmured into her coffee as she considered the accusation. It recalled to her mind a memory of a conversation she had had with Dr. Zin a few days earlier.

. . . . (Flashback) . . . .

Akaata Zin looked up from her datapad as the doors to the medical bay whooshed open, admitting an irritable looking Captain Jadelore.

"Captain," Akaata greeted in her usual serene manner, setting the padd down, "I wasn't expecting you, at least not so soon. I thought I'd have to drag you to your annual checkup . . . again."

"Just shut up and get it over with Doctor," Jadelore had snapped, seating herself on the medical bay bed and looking thoroughly annoyed with the world.

In contrast, the expression on Akaata's face didn't change as she glided unhurriedly over and began running through the steps of the Captain's yearly health examination.

As she worked, she asked delicately, "Is something troubling you, Captain?"

"Not at all," Jadelore drawled acerbically.

"How strange then that your blood pressure is spiking. I assume you've been laying off the caffeine like I told you?"

Jadelore didn't answer for a moment, and then,"It's that damn Borg drone." It was a mutter, almost reluctant, as if the Captain were hesitant to admit that the newest inhabitant of the ship was getting under her skin.

"Ah yes," Akaata hummed, "Nine of Nine, our resident Borg. I thought you would be pleased to have her aboard. You've been looking for a drone for so long."

"I _would_ be happy, if she weren't so damn stubborn," Jadelore grumbled, "She refuses to answer most of my questions. She's of no use to me like this . . . I don't suppose we can go back to plan B and manually extract information on the Collective?"

"I'm afraid that would violate my oaths," Akaata replied lightly.

"Doesn't matter," Jadelore muttered, letting out a sigh. "No offense, Doctor, but this is way out of your league anyway. We need a slicer, not a physician. I'd hate to add more damage on top of what the Imperials already did . . . But damned if I'm not tempted to try anyway. I swear she enjoys it, despite all her claims to 'rationality' and 'logic' and 'not acting on emotion'."

"Perhaps you shouldn't antagonize her so," Akaata suggested gently, though there was a hint of a superior tone to her voice that the Captain easily picked up on, if her narrowed eyes were any indication.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Doctor," she replied icily.

"Of course, Captain," Akaata answered smoothly. "I only meant to say that, perhaps, if she grew to like you, she might be more inclined to be forthcoming with information."

"I don't need her to like me. Hate would work just as well. People often tell their enemies just as much as they tell their friends, albeit unintentionally. But I have a feeling it would be infinitely easier to work with someone who thought as a person, rather than a drone."

"Nevertheless, a little kindness can go a long way, Mirimon," Zin remarked, giving her a significant look.

Jadelore frowned at her, but she saw her point. "How wonderful that I can rely on you for advice, Akaata," her voice dripped with sarcasm, but a pleased smile spread across the other woman's face in spite of her Captain's tone.

"I'm happy to serve. And you can go. Your blood pressure's a little high, but you're in good health otherwise."

"Finally," the Captain huffed, jumping to her feet and striding out of the medical bay muttering under her breath.

"Physically, that is. Mentally though . . ." the woman trailed off, turning her attention back to her datapad.

. . . . . . (End Flashback) . . . . . .

"Captain Jadelore?" Nine was looking at her curiously, something almost akin to concern lurking in the depths of her dark eyes.

"How old are you, Nine?" Jadelore asked suddenly, looking at the ex drone intently.

Nine hesitated, her mouth opening and closing as she pondered the question.

"We are . . . uncertain. We have existed as Borg for . . . over twenty years."

"And were you an adult when you were assimilated, or a child?" the Captain pressed.

"An adult," Nine answered quietly, an unreadable expression flashing across her eyes.

"Yet you remember none of your life before?"

Nine frowned, seeming to draw an invisible curtain over her emotions as she responded stiffly, "Very little."

"Your species, is their life span and rate of development similar to humans?" Jadelore asked thoughtfully, studying the woman (who appeared no older than her late twenties or early thirties) with a newfound curiosity.

"It is . . . though fetal development is reduced to a period of five months," Nine replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," the Captain stated. "You appear . . . rather young for your claimed age."

"Some of the tension seemed to leave the other woman as she explained, "Our Borg nanoprobes work constantly to repair cellular damage. A side affect is reduced wear and tear from the aging process, both mentally and physically."

"How fortunate for you," she laughed.

Nine didn't seem to understand the other woman's amusement, but she didn't comment.

Looking at her now empty coffee cup with a sigh, Jadelore had waved her hand abruptly. "You're dismissed. I have work to do. Try not to assimilate anyone."

A confused look had flashed across the other woman's face as she rose, inclining her head briefly before departing.

Jadelore watched her retreat before turning back to reviewing the medical report she had collected concerning the woman from one Dr. Zin.

"I hope you're right, Doctor," she murmured to herself.

. . . . . . .

 **Deep Space 9**

 **A few days later . . .**

*Beep*

Sisko frowned, rolling over in bed and purposely ignoring the noise.

*Beep*

He covered his head with a pillow, hoping the caller would give up.

*Beep*

With a sigh and a weary expression, he sat up in bed, rubbing his tired eyes.

*Beep*

"Damn it! I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered in annoyance, rising to his feet and stopping in front of the monitor to accept the call.

He punched a few buttons and the stern face of an white haired woman in her late sixties or early seventies appeared on the screen.

"Admiral Petrova," he greeted wearily, pulling a chair up to the monitor and taking a seat.

"Sisko," she replied briefly. "Sorry to wake you."

"I trust this isn't a social call?" he inquired, wondering what he was about to get pulled into, if an admiral in Star Fleet was contacting him at three in the morning.

Petrova inclined her head slightly, a wry grimace flashing across her face. "I'm afraid not."

He sighed, passing his hands across his face as he fought back the urge to yawn. He nodded at her to continue.

"We've received reports from the Elassi concerning the incident in the Gamma Quadrant. It appears there's a chance not all of the Borg were destroyed in the attack."

"Is this report coming from Minister Kleth?" he inquired. "I hope you'll forgive my bluntness, Admiral, but I don't trust the man."

She silently acknowledged his reaction with a pointed look before replying, "No, it seems the Kleth administration has fallen out of favor with the general Elassi public. He's been impeached and exiled. A man named Thrynn is now in control. The reports are from his intelligence people."

"What do we know about him?" Sisko pressed warily.

"He's competent," she replied shortly. "And has thus far cooperated with our inquiries and investigation."

"So . . . he thinks some of the Borg survived . . . How?"

"It appears the destruction of the shield complex managed to rip a hole in subspace. We're . . . not sure where it leads," for the first time, a look of doubt crossed her face, but was quickly replaced by her former stoic expression.

Sisko frowned. "Have you employed a probe?"

"Naturally," she replied crisply, "The readings are erratic. That's why I'm calling you. We need someone to take a ship to the site and poke around a bit, see what that idiot Kleth managed to do now."

Sisko let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, leaning forward in his chair and coupling his hands together as he looked down for a moment. After a few seconds, he replied slowly, "Admiral, I . . . appreciate the chance to personally investigate this matter, but I'm afraid I have other obligations."

"It wasn't a request, Captain," she responded brusquely.

"Admiral, with all due respect, I must decline," he insisted, a touch of irritation coloring his voice.

"And Captain, with all due authority, I'm telling _you_ that you don't have that luxury. If the Borg have been let loose on some new, unsuspecting part of the galaxy, we damn well need to know about it. And if a bunch of Cubes are lying derelict on the other side of a wormhole, we can't afford letting a single nanoprobe fall into the hands of an opportunistic scavenger."

"The funeral for my first officer is tomorrow," he stated bluntly, steely resolve in his eyes. "The Bajoran custom requires a burial within 24 hours of death. Now . . . as there was no body to be recovered, they were willing to delay the ceremony, but I cannot ask them to postpone it any longer. And I am _not_ going to be absent from that ceremony. I owe the Major that much."

She regarded him with a hard expression for a moment. Sisko was uncomfortably reminded of an Earth hawk staring down its prey.

"You have a week to get a preliminary report to me," she finally said. "That should provide you an adequate amount of time. I can give you no longer than that."

Sisko bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Admiral. If that's all?"

"It is," she answered, but as he rose to shut the monitor off, she added, "Oh, and Sisko? My condolences." That said, she disconnected the link, leaving him staring at a blank screen.

. . . . . . . .

AN:

More fun with the Borg. Reviews are nice. Please don't forget to feed the writer. I made up a bit about Bajoran funeral customs and Borg technology. What else . . . Oh, in case you hadn't noticed, while years and decades are passing in the Star Wars universe, in the Star Trek universe time is passing much more slowly.

And it hasn't been explicitly stated, but Jadelore didn't strip all the Borg hardware from Kira (no Seven of Nine in an awkward, skin tight suit). Obviously, her connection to the Collective has been severed, a few things probably altered, but she still has some of the benefits of the whole Borg armor (mostly because it looks badass).

Comments and helpful critiques welcome. I know it isn't airtight (far from it), but I'm attempting to grow and develop the story. I'm not used to writing these particular characters, so any tips are appreciated at capturing their voices (Kira is kinda tricky because I wiped most of her memory and made her a Borg drone . . . but she'll sort of come back a bit from that, so feel free to comment as well. Please be polite.).


End file.
